


A Day in the Life

by Goldstein_1984



Category: The Beatles (Band)
Genre: Being Lost, Death, Dreams and Nightmares, Ice Cream, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-08
Updated: 2021-02-08
Packaged: 2021-03-14 00:02:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 678
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29287239
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Goldstein_1984/pseuds/Goldstein_1984
Summary: no 9
Relationships: The Beatles & The Beatles
Kudos: 1





	A Day in the Life

It was a regular day. John had woken up and brushed his teeth as Paul suddenly became Ringo - he really was that annoying. Usually, John would have coffee or tea, but he settled for beer instead. George, whose whole body was gleaming from his new shampoo, grunted loudly and took the beer away from John’s hand. 

“Not that, you poor little four-legged cow”, George slurred. “Not that kind of juice in the morning. Bad for the stomach.” 

John felt heat running up to his cheeks, his whole body now burning with rage; and before he could register what he was doing, he slapped George in the face and stormed out of the hotel room. 

The brisk air of the upcoming autumn in Paris made him shiver as soon as he took a step outside. He sauntered a little, walking fast enough to warm up. He felt scattered. Utterly scattered, reduced to pieces so small they would be taken away by the breeze in the mist. 

His foot met the ground with a light clatter and a tingling pain rushed to his toes. He didn’t spot anything, but a harsh smell of onion filled his nostrils and stifled him. 

“Better get going, this place’s scary”, John mumbled under his breath. His voice seemed to echo in the distance. 

Soon enough, he found his way back to the hotel. With a slight thrill, he wondered if he had slapped George hard enough to leave a mark. George was a great lad. Paul was too. And so was Ringo. John couldn’t wait to see them. The more time he spent with them, the more he got annoyed and mad at them over little things, but the more it hurt to be away from them. 

“Sorry, this place’s closed”, said an officer at the door of the hotel. 

“Bollocks! I just went out of it! I’m John Lennon, remember?”

“Sorry, this place’s closed. As for the rest of the Beatles, they’ve been gone for two days. But the Rolling Stones are in there, you could probably join them.” 

“You’ve gotta be kidding me.” 

“Sorry, this place’s closed.” 

Again, his anger was so present, so omnipotent that he reached for the man and threw him away in one skillful move of the wrist. Gendarmes hurried to his side and gripped him. 

“You cannot throw a man like that. This is unacceptable. You will certainly deserve a punishment for that.” 

A bomb flew over them. He felt his heart race. 

They wandered about, tripping as the gendarmes pulled him back and forth and from both sides. Again, his foot brushed against something on the pavement. It was soft, warm, but quite solid. He glanced down. 

Brian. Epstein’s corpse. Dead. Brian was dead. 

“Hey, aren’t you John Lennon?” said a gendarme with the most devilish grin. 

“No, I’m actually Thomas d’Aquin.” 

It took them barely a second to hit him. He was weak like a rag and thumped on the concrete. A first foot hit him violently in the side, and a hand grasped his hair. 

“There, you bloody wanker. That’s all you deserve, John.”

The man had Alfred’s voice. 

But all he could think about was Brian. Brian, who was crushed, sprawled in the mud with his limbs twisted. Everyone was going to cry. Oh, God, everyone was going to cry… Including himself. He couldn’t bear that… He just couldn’t… 

He gasped and opened his eyes wide. 

The gendarmes were still there; he could feel their batons. But they slowly faded away. 

He was lying down, his swimsuit sticking to his wet skin. It was raining, and his limbs quivered. A deep sigh escaped his lips as he tried calming his racing heart by putting a hand on the warm side of the volcano against which he leant. The sky was a deep purple and he smiled. Paul soon joined him and handed him a cigarette, which tasted like butterscotch ice cream with a hint of mint. 

What a weird dream he’d had. Thank God it had ended and he was back in reality.

**Author's Note:**

> I've got nothing to say, but it's okay. Good morning, good morning!


End file.
